


In Vino Veritas

by WaywardSpark



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 5 + 1 Things, Alcohol, Asexual Aziraphale (Good Omens), Asexual Crowley (Good Omens), Declarations Of Love, Don't copy to another site, Drinking, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, First Kiss, Fluff, Historical, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-01
Updated: 2019-09-01
Packaged: 2020-10-05 03:50:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,871
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20482376
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WaywardSpark/pseuds/WaywardSpark
Summary: Five confessions Aziraphale made drunk, and one he made sober





	In Vino Veritas

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to @Kaz_Langston for betaing!

Aziraphale and Crowley had little in common: they were hereditary enemies, after all, representing light and darkness, generosity and temptation, kindness and trickery respectively. The idea of them even coexisting in peace seemed highly improbable. But somehow, against all odds, they were brought together into a friendship that would last millenia, surpass the rise and fall of civilisations, observe unscathed as humans endured disaster after disaster and rebuild themselves anew over and over. And this impossible feat was achieved, as most impossible feats are, through alcohol.

Crowley loved alcohol for how much easier it made his job. Tempting humans twenty four hours a day could occasionally get boring; there’s only so many times one can tempt a politician into embezzling money before one realised that it didn’t take much persuasiveness or creativity at all, and that there wouldn’t even be the reward of getting to see some earthly punishment before their inevitable death and solemn journey down to hell. So alcohol allows for some entertainment. He need do nothing except yell the words, ‘round’s on me!’ And suddenly there was sin galore, the bosses downstairs were pleased, and Crowley was free to nap through it all. He’d like to say he’s responsible for its invention, and all the sins that followed in its wake, but that is because he is a demon and deceptive by nature, not to mention lazy and indifferent to the task given to him. In reality, alcohol was invented by a lovely Iranian woman in around 3500 BC, whom Crowley was rather good friends with. 

Aziraphale, though reluctant at first, was soon convinced into trying some wine by a kind yet slightly intimidating elderly lady, back in 2700 BC in Babylon, and loved it ever since. He loved alcohol in the same way he loved food; it could take many forms, turning a simple refreshment and sustenance (not that angels needed it) into an _experience_, whether it be flat or bubbly, sweet or dry, light or stiff. To him, it was a testimony to the creativity of mankind, that they could turn such a harmful and poisonous substance into something beautiful, as they did with so many other things.

So it became a ritual for the two beings: whenever they met, whether that be once a week or every few decades, they would find the best vintage bottles of wine (the number growing exponentially over the centuries), and drink until their vessels ceased to function at their prime, until they were completely drunk and free of the restraints they were burdened with. 

Because what they both loved about alcohol was that every so often they could forget: they could forget the Plans, ineffable or otherwise; they could forget the tight grasp their headquarters had over them and the shadow of fear they left; they could forget that they were Angel and Demon, hereditary enemies, doomed to fight in a war they had no real interest in. In short, they were simply Aziraphale and Crowley. 

I 

Rome, 43 AD

The first time they drank together was in Rome.

Crowley had only planned to stay in Rome for a month; the Romans could do perfectly fine without his influence, always drinking and lusting and stabbing each other in the back for political gain (sometimes metaphorically, often literally). Besides, Rome is only one small part of the world. He could visit China, Ethiopia, Gaul, anywhere he wanted, and there would still be a job to do. But then he ran into Aziraphale. And they had oysters together. (Disgusting, slimy things, in his opinion. The humans called them aphrodisiacs. Crowley couldn’t think of a single reason for their inexplicably ever-constant horniness to be heightened by eating what was essentially sea goop). Though the food wasn’t to his taste, he found the company fascinating. Aziraphale’s opinions on all matters, both earthly and heavenly, were so unlike his own and what he’d been taught that he could listen to him talk, and watch his normally smiling face drop in horror at his own casual blasphemy and dismissal of Aziraphale’s favourite things, for hours on end. And he did, once or twice. So he decided to stay, simply for the purpose of not being bored. And besides, he’d have to work extra hard to counteract the angel’s blessings if he wanted head office to be pleased.

If he found himself spending more time orchestrating ways of running into Aziraphale than tempting humans into sin over the next two years, that’s neither here nor there.

One day, drowsy and satiated from a delicious meal and the wine that went with it, walking through the streets of Rome at dusk, Crowley plucked up the courage to casually state, “I have some more wine back in my villa, y’know. If you want to keep going.”

“You have a villa?” Aziraphale asked. “I thought you weren’t staying here long.”

“Yeah, well,” Crowley shrugged, “it’s quite nice here. Good wine. Hot weather. Plenty of sin. Managed to get quite a nice place off a senator.”

“I suppose that by happenstance he decided to take a quick two year holiday in Gaul?” Aziraphale retorted drily. His sense of humour never failed to surprise Crowley, with just enough bitchiness to enthral Crowley and make him a worthwhile companion. 

“Pompeii, actually. Very popular this time of year. So, angel, what do you think?”

“I - well, it’s a lovely offer,” Aziraphale said stiffly, training his eyes on the passing cobbled street. “I do love the wine here. But - it is rather forward, and we’re hardly meant to be fraternising - “

“Fraternising?! Nah,” Crowley grins. “I’m fulfilling my duty and exceeding it by tempting a heavenly being into sloth and gluttony, while you’re opening up your heart with love for a poor old demon like myself, spreading God’s benevolence to those in most need of it.”

Aziraphale huffed out a laugh, smiling down at the floor. By the time he looked up, the gleam in his eye said that his mind had already been made up. “Well, when you put it like that. One drink, mind. I have some blessings to do early tomorrow.”

~

“More wine, my dear boy?” Aziraphale slurred, tipping the bottle towards Crowley to offer him his - sixteenth? Seventeenth? - cup of wine. At this point, it was difficult to keep track - Crowley had never been particularly good at maths even at his most sober, let alone now, on this very strong Sicilian wine. Besides, what need was there for two immortal beings to keep track of something so immaterial as units of alcohol? Discorporation did not come easily, normally through extreme violence. While vessels did need maintaining with sustenance and rest and cleaning, they were not so quickly and easily weakened by hunger or dehydration or alcohol poisoning; all these problems could be fixed with a simple miracle.

Crowley grinned, holding out his cup. He was lying on his back, his head hanging off the edge of his couch while he watched Aziraphale with hazy, heavy-lidded eyes. Said angel was lying on his front on the adjacent couch, his chin resting on one arm while the other precariously held the bottle of wine by the neck. Crowley wondered if he was drunk enough to admit that Aziraphale looked handsome in this light, the candle light making his hair glow in a halo and his eyes twinkle. He then wondered if he was sober enough to acknowledge how close together their faces were without thinking to act on it. 

Nope. 

He held out his cup. “Pour me up, m’angel.” Aziraphale generously poured the wine, spilling some over the brim of the cup and onto the tiled floor. “Careful! I’ve just had the floor done.”

“Oh, do shush,” laughed Aziraphale, a gentle tinkle that filled Crowley with more warmth than all the wine in Rome ever could. He waved his hand clumsily and the wine was miracled away, hopefully to somewhere discreet like the ocean, but more likely in his drunken state to a nearby temple, accidentally soaking a furious priest in wine. “I’m an angel. Our purpose is to clean up messes. Namely _your_ messes.”

“Mine?!” Crowley exclaimed with a dramatic gasp, affronted that Aziraphale could even suggest he would make a mess of anything. Unlike the majority of the demons of hell, he was a neat-freak, preferring the open, clean spaces of his villa, with its beautiful gardens and hot, luxurious baths, to the hot, crowded, dusty enclosures of hell. Even each temptation was clean. He loved to make people irritable, short-fused - what they did with that fuse was up to them. His hands were clean.

“No - you, _plural._You lot. You demons and your messes.” If an angel could be bitter, a trace of it would have been found in Aziraphale’s words. It stung a little, but Crowley wasn’t the type to allow himself to feel things. He shrugged it off like water off a duck.

“Yup, and that’s our job. It’s our God-given purpose.” He paused in thought. “Or Satan-given.”

“I imagine it’s a bit of both.”

Crowley nodded thoughtfully. “Ssstrange, isn’t it? That God would purposefully create creatures of evil to lure Her creations away from Her?”

Aziraphale pursed his lips, a crease forming between his eyebrows. Crowley hated to use the word ‘adorable’ - too mushy for him - but neither human nor angelic language had a more appropriate word yet. “It’s not our place to question. It’s - “

“Ineffable, yeah, I know,” he rolled his eyes under his tinted glasses. “But don’t you ever think about it? Asssk a couple of questions to yourself about the Great plansss?” 

It took Aziraphale a good moment or two to understand Crowley, drunk as he was. He simply stared at him for a while with narrowed eyes, then understanding dawned on him, like a raw egg yolk running from his head down his spine. He stammered, eyes wide. “I can’t - I can’t admit that!”

He grinned. “Is there something to admit?”

“No! I mean - I can neither confirm nor deny. It’s either lying or treason. Either way, The Almighty would be awfully cross with me.”

“It’s a bit more than ‘awfully cross’ for treasssson, Aziraphale.”

“Exactly! You of all people should know it. Oh - “ He glared at Crowley. “Is that why you got me drunk? To extort my secrets from me and to - to make me fall?!”

Crowley flinched. Aziraphale has never been this direct about his suspicions, though he had never succeeded in hiding it either. To hear it confirmed out loud - well, even his dark glasses couldn’t hide the hurt, the painful cocktail of betrayal and melancholy weighing heavily in his lungs. Aziraphale clearly noticed the pain betrayed on his face and his own softened. “Oh, m’dear boy. I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean it. It must be the wine.”

“It’s... fine.” He huffed out a laugh. “That’s why our side invented it. Plenty of wrath to go around.”

“Did they?”

“I dunno, but we’ve taken credit for it.”

“Even so, my accus- my accasat- well, what I said was inexcusable. I’ve known you for nearly four thousand years now, and you’ve never once given me any reason to doubt you.” Oh, Satan, his eyes were welling up. How was Crowley supposed to deal with this? “Let me make it up to you.”

“You don’t need -“

“I insist. I will tell you a secret.” Aziraphale sat up clumsily, cleared his throat nervously, then leaned in conspiratorially so that Crowley could smell the wine on his breath, sweet and intoxicating. (Actually, it was kind of disgusting, but even demons romanticised the object of their affections. Or, at least, Crowley did). “I suppose I have questioned... one thing.”

The flood? Slavery? Dog cancer? Crocs? (Crowley had seen The Almighty’s plans for them, once upon a time, before his Saunter Downwards, and he was greatly displeased. He wondered if that was part of the reason he fell). Crowley leaned in, a devilish (so to speak), curious smile growing on his lips. “Yessss?”

“Gabriel’s promotion.”

Crowley made a series of stammers and stutters that vaguely translated to ‘?????’ or ‘ngk’, phonetically speaking. “I’m sssorry, what?” 

Aziraphale averted his eyes, shame and bitterness lacing his words. “Gabriel was chosen to talk to Mary of Nazareth instead of me. Even though _I’m_ the one with the most experience with humans and healthcare. I’ve witnessed a lot of pregnancies and childbirths in my time - and frankly, m’dear, they are revolting. I could have been so helpful to Mary - she was only fourteen and was hardly well educated about these matters. But I happened to miss the interview because I was in India at the time, performing miracles!”

“Ah.”

“And then the job went to Gabriel. Who was all - “ He deepened his voice mockingly, inflicting Gabriel’s accent - “‘Behold me! You are blessed! You will have a baby and name him Jesus!’ Without even a how-do-you-do.” He downed the rest of his drink with a bitter scowl. Then his cheeks turned red. “Goodness, I’m so sorry, my dear. I can’t imagine what you must think of me right now. I must seem like a terrible person. Angel. Thingy. So selfish.”

Crowley smiled. “My dear angel,” he said, “I’m the last person on Earth, heaven, hell, and all planes of existence, who would be judging you.”

“Really?”

“‘Course. Hating Gabriel doesn’t make you a bad angel. It makes you an angel with common fucking sense.” 

Aziraphale smiled, and Crowley would swear to Satan himself that the candlelight glowed a little brighter.

II 

London, 1591

Aziraphale could cope fine with the cold. Really, he wasn’t some newly hatched cherub, complaining about the state of the earth and its faults (of which there were MANY). He was several trillion years old, and well prepared for whatever Earth could throw at him. That’s partially why he chose this well-padded vessel, as a sort of shield to match his since-missing flaming sword, to fight off the elements while also appearing friendly and unintimidating. 

But really now, was there any need to make Edinburgh _that_ freezing?!

The humans had not yet managed to shield themselves from the elements entirely. Their clothes were itchy and tricky, fumbly things, a huge downgrade from the simple robes only a couple of thousand years before, and half as resilient in the face of cold weather. The houses of the rich were perfectly suited for the cold weather, made from the sturdiest stone, with plenty of windows and chimneys to clear out a smokey room. Not so much the case for the poor, with whom Aziraphale had to spend most of his time; blessing some with hope of a bright future and promise of the Lord’s benevolence, while others he tempted into stealing to help their families get by or fraudulent schemes to earn money. The wealthy could sin perfectly well of their own accord, so unfortunately, he was not needed there, and he was forced to suffer the cold for a whole month.

As soon as his tasks were finished, he teleported straight down to London again, frivolous miracles be damned, and hunted for the nearest tavern to debrief with Crowley. When he found himself waiting for a couple more hours than predicted, he ended up drinking to entertain himself. Oh, how he missed the warm, fuzzy feeling of drinking. How he missed warmth, full stop.

Four hours into his drinking session, Crowley sauntered in, spotted Aziraphale waving his hand eagerly in the corner, and walked towards him. “The mission was a total success!” He exclaimed brightly to the demon, who then shushed him, wary of the other patrons at the bar. Patrons, schmatrons, Aziraphale thought to himself with a giggle. But he so hated to disappoint Crowley, so he attempted to keep his voice low once Crowley sat down. Not very well, but good enough for someone as inebriated as he was. “I tempted the man to steal cattle, as asked, and also began a brawl between two men. Then I blessed a newly married couple and inspired a woman to make charitable donations to the poor. The world remains balanced and neutral, and we both have plenty to report back to headquarters.”

“Good job, angel.” Crowley caught the bartender’s attention, who started pouring him a drink. “Mine was also a success. Hamlet sold out for all its performances, and it will be remembered as a classic for the foreseeable future.”

Aziraphale beamed, exhaling a sigh of relief. “Oh, thank you. How wonderful.”

“Don’t see why you like it so much,” Crowley grumbled. “Bloody miserable.”

“It’s _poetic_,” Aziraphale replied haughtily. “S’a genius introspection into human nature. And that Horatio, I do love his character so. One cannot help but become attached to the Bard’s characters.”

“I can.” 

“Oh, I hardly expect a de- well, _you_ to understand the fine arts.”

“I do so. I just prefer ones that don’t make this world even more depressing than it already is.” He paused to drink some of his beer, then he confessed, “I’m even starring in one next year.”

Aziraphale could only assume he had misheard. He looked up at him with not a dissimilar expression to if Crowley had grown a second head, bewildered and impressed and horrified all at once. “Good heavens. Are you really?”

“Yup.” Crowley said proudly, popping the ‘p’. “A comedy, thankfully. I will be playing the ‘witty and androgynous’ Viola.” He smirked. “It appears I have become his new muse.”

_Muse._ Something hot and sickly burnt in Aziraphale’s stomach at that word, and he ended up knocking his drink over with the force of it. It could have been the vile beer here, turning his stomach and throwing off his balance, but was more likely jealousy. Jealousy! An angel, jealous of - of -

_The playwright or the demon?_

Aziraphale pushed that thought aside and downed the rest of his drink. When he came up for air, he grinned brightly. “Well, congratulations, my dear. I’m sure the stage has gained a fine actor. And may Shakespeare’s creativity know no bounds with his new muse.” He quickly, desperately, signalled for a new drink.

Crowley narrowed his eyes. “Are you - are y’jealous?”

His heart stammered in his chest in a syncopated rhythm. “Of course not. I’m very happy for you and your artistic endeavours.” His stomach twisted again. This beer clearly disagreed with him.

Crowley chuckled darkly. “Alright, Aziraphale. But you’d do well to remember that I can detect sin.”

His heart plummeted. This was it, he thought. The cause of his inevitable discorporation. How would one explain ‘extreme mortification resulting in heart attack’ on the paperwork requiring a new body? “How dare you. I’m an angel. I can’t sin. I’m not - designed that way.”

“Really? Not even envy?” Aziraphale swallowed. Crowley leaned closer, their noses almost touching, so that Aziraphale could see his smug, yellow eyes through his glasses. “Because you reek of it, angel. Jealousy.”

Aziraphale refused to move. Moving would mean letting Crowley win this game of Chicken he had initiated, giving him the upper hand. Besides, he wasn’t sure that he could move even if he wanted to, frozen and breathless as he was by Crowley’s knowing gaze and accusations. In a steady voice that surprised even himself, he replied, “I refuse to respond to your insinuations.”

“Don’t need to,” Crowley grinned. “Your face gives away enough. Your cheeks are red.” A finger lightly stroked said cheek, feather-light, making Aziraphale jolt backwards with the force of a bolt of electricity. 

“It’s the alcohol. Besides, it’s cold.”

“Still. I knew you were a fan, but I didn’t realise you were that… attached to Shakespeare.”

“I - I’m not!”

“I didn’t think you’d be so _possssessive_...”

“Oh please, it’s not like that,” Aziraphale protested snappishly. “It’s pure admiration for his craft, nothing else.”

Crowley laughed. “Oh, that’s what they all say, but there isn’t a single man or woman in London who doesn’t want to dip into the Bard’s breeches, so I’ve heard.”

“Crowley!”

“Well, if you change your mind, I’d happily give him a recommendation. Wingman, that’s what they call it, right?”

Aziraphale grimaced, his stomach churning at the mere idea of it. “Enough. Honestly, I am completely uninterested in him in any capacity, except intellectually. I am not one of his... fanatics.”

“Really? You’ve never fancied having ssssonnets dedicated to you? Walking through the ssstreets of London hand in hand? Waking up to see that bright gold earring glissstening in the early light of dawn?” Crowley drawled mockingly, taking delight in how Aziraphale’s blush deepened. 

“Heavens, no. Far too abrasive a personality for me. Besides,” he added pointedly, “I hate that goatee of his.” 

Crowley’s smile fell. “But... I have a goatee.”

“Oh really?” Aziraphale feigned surprise, sipping his drink innocently. “I hadn’t noticed.” He had. He hated it. He still missed the long, flowing locks Crowley bore in Golgotha. And mocking Crowley was certainly a worthy punishment for daring to insinuate as he had done, since Aziraphale no longer had smiting privileges.

Crowley’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Okay... And Shakespeare’s goatee. That’s your deal breaker?”

“Well, that and the fact that I am an immortal, sexless angel, so any relationship with a human as lustful and with such a short life expectancy as him will undoubtedly end in disaster. But yes, I suppose it is.” As Crowley nodded thoughtfully, Aziraphale smiled behind his pint glass.

The next morning, Aziraphale happened to pass Crowley in the street, and as they tilted their hats to each other in acknowledgement, Aziraphale noticed with a smile that he was clean shaven. Later, Crowley would insist it was for his role as Viola, but Aziraphale liked to think otherwise. Besides, it wasn’t technically manipulation, since he was only 30 per cent sure it would work. And angels don’t manipulate. They simply make suggestions.

III 

Paris, 1793

The Americans had many ways to keep themselves entertained while they were attempting to heal their country and prevent total disrepair after the war. One of those entertainments was the ‘drinking game.’ More specifically, the game ‘Never Have I Ever.’ Crowley thought it was brilliant. He couldn’t have done it better himself (which he wished he had): a game that celebrated sin and the weirdness of humanity while shunning the purity and inexperience the Opposition preferred. Crowley had found himself joining in a couple of times in the homes of bored generals and their friends with newfound wealth over the last 30 years, just to observe the general state of humanity these days, and to enjoy the scandalised and aroused widening of their eyes as he embellished lies of what he as a human would get up to. 

And now, in France, having indulged themselves on crepes and wine at a miraculously empty inn to celebrate Aziraphale’s successful escape from the guillotine, Crowley decided this would be a perfectly good time to introduce the game to the angel. “The aim,” he explained, “is to get the other person as drunk as possible to reveal embarrassing and weird stuff about themselves.”

Aziraphale pressed his lips together into a thin line. “Isn’t that taking advantage of their inebriation? I’m not sure I can support that, Crowley.”

“Yeah, but everyone in the game does it to each other, so technically it cancels out. Like fractions.” It had been a while since Crowley had spent any time with mathematicians, so he wasn’t entirely sure if it was true. But Aziraphale seemed pleased with this answer and brightened up.

“Alright. Sounds like fun. You go first, though, so I can get the hang of it.”

“Okay.” He miracled a set of shot glasses that he had seen in America filled with whiskey for the table, and refilled their wine glasses to tide them by. After all, one can never have too much alcohol (at least as a demon or angel. Humans had far stricter limits with far more severe consequences). “Never have I ever,” he paused in thought, “revealed my wings in front of a human accidentally.”

Aziraphale took a shot. Crowley was unsurprised by this. “Do I have to explain it?”

“Not if you don’t want to, but it’s best to assume I’ll be curious about anything you’d admit.”

“Fine.” Despite being alone at the bar, Aziraphale lowered his voice. Perhaps out of embarrassment. “It was 1308, and I thought I was alone in my room - I was staying at an Italian nobleman’s place - and needed to groom my wings. It gets so tiresome keeping them stocked away on a different plain of existence, y’know? So obviously I released them and, well, the maid walked in.”

“Oh well, she’s probably seen stranger things,” Crowley shrugged. “Nobles are always off doing weird things to each other.”

“Actually, she fainted, and when she came to, she quit her job and joined a convent. So in a way, this is a success story. Heaven was very pleased.” Aziraphale smiled brightly. “Gosh, this is rather fun, isn’t it?”

“I feel like I know you better already, angel,” Crowley drawled. “Your turn.”

“Oh, okay. Ah - um. Never have I ever... not tipped a waiter at a restaurant.”

Crowley scoffed. “Seriously? That’s what you’re going with?”

Aziraphale’s face fell. “Well, you said to ask about embarrassing truths,” he said defensively, “and I would be utterly ashamed to forget to tip someone.” 

_Oh, angel._ Crowley’s heart pounded fiercely, like he was falling from a great height. <s>Perhaps he was.</s> “I suppose I can’t argue with that. No, I’ve never done that.” 

Aziraphale smiled, crinkling his eyes and the corner of his mouth. “Ah. Good. There’s hope for you yet.”

Crowley scowled and grumbled under his breath. “I don’t need hope. Anyway - never have I ever - “ he pursed his lips in thought, before blowing out a breath and saying, “never have I ever finished more than one book in a day.”

Aziraphale huffed out a laugh and took a shot, as Crowley did at the same time. “Of course I have! It’s not as if you said ‘never have I ever finished more than one book in an hour.’”

“Have you?”

Aziraphale averted his eyes. “Yes. Once or twice. Sometimes I’ve frozen time to do so. Think that’s why Gabriel sent me that note on ‘frivolous miracles’. What about you? How many books have you read in a day.”

Crowley threw his head back and laughed. “I haven’t read a single book for the last six centuries.”

“Seriously? Not a single book? Not Paradise Lost or Don Quixote?”

“Who?”

“Don Qui - oh, never mind. Let’s move this along.” Aziraphale leaned forward in his chair, his wine sloshing out of the cup in his hand. He observed Crowley with bright blue eyes for an unnerving amount of time, then bit his lower lip and grinned. “Never have I ever Made an Effort.”

If Crowley had been drinking at that point, he probably would have spat it out in a comical fashion, or choked on it. “Fucking hell, angel, that’s quite a leap from books to Efforts.”

“It’s a perfectly simple question, dear boy. You have to answer, that’s part of the game.”

“Fine. In answer to your question, no. I have not.”

Aziraphale’s mouth fell open. “Really?”

“Course not, never had an interest. Too messy. Why would you think I -- ohh, I see.” Crowley pointed an accusing, clumsy finger at Aziraphale. “You think that, as a demon, I must be completely lussstful. Some kind of ssssuccubus or Incubus or whatever other ‘buses’ there are.” He frowned. “Or is it Succubi? Stupid dead languages and their stupid grammar.”

“Of course not! I would never accuse you of that. I was just curious. I would never do anything to offend you. Intentionally.” Aziraphale paused. “Are there Succubuses and Incubuses?”

“Yeah, demons can apply for the role, like a promotion. Anyway, I didn’t see you take a drink. Have you?”

“No. Like you, I have no interest.”

“Really? A creature of luuurrrrvvee? Uninterested in ‘making luuurrrvvvee’ as the humans call it.” 

Aziraphale guffawed behind his hand. “No! Not _that_ kind of love.”

“But you’re a complete hedonist!” Crowley protested. “Surely you’ve been a little bit curious to try it out, at one point or another?”

“Well, this is different to stuffed goose and sushi, isn’t it? While I have some interest in learning as much as I can about human nature and the variety of cultures they’ve created, I have no interest in that aspect.” Aziraphale’s nose wrinkled. “I saw enough of that in Eden for several lifetimes.”

Crowley nodded in agreement. When Adam and Eve ate the forbidden fruit, as well as being banished from the garden, they were punished with the newfound qualities of Modesty and Shame. Crowley couldn’t understand how this was a punishment; modesty meant that the humans felt the need to clothe themselves, leading to humans creating fine outfits out of silk and soft cotton which both Crowley and Aziraphale took pride in, and meant that Adam and Eve would find a private room before coupling (and for that they had to invent Buildings and Rooms, both of which Crowley was very grateful for.) There was nothing more human than finding the best out of a bad situation, and the humans’ need for privacy was an excellent outcome. He did not want to watch intercourse again. Frankly, it looked horrific. That, and childbirth. It was a wonder humans procreated at all.

“So,” Aziraphale interrupted Crowley’s line of thought, much to his relief. “You and Shakespeare never..?”

Crowley scoffed. “Hell, no. I was a muse, not a… side piece.”

“Not even to lure him to eternal damnation with your snakey wiles?” Aziraphale giggled again.

“There isn’t any damage I could have done that hadn’t already been done. Adultery, remember.”

“Right. Of course.” Aziraphale exhaled slowly with a soft, calm breath, visibly relaxing. Crowley’s eyebrows knitted together, he lowered his glasses further down his nose to look at the angel over the top of them. 

“You alright, angel?”

“Mmh? Oh, yes. Wonderful, actually. It’s just - well, if I’m being honest - and this is probably the whiskey making me melancholy, so do excuse me - it gets rather lonely being an ethereal being surrounded by humans.” Crowley raised his eyebrows, something tugging at his chest. Sympathy perhaps. Satan, Hell would have a field day if they knew. “Constantly having to lie about your name and identity and interests to avoid suspicion. And humans are so obsessed with their Efforts - not that it is an effort for them, is it? It’s all part of the package deal - so it’s rather validating having you here, equally uninterested in the idea.” Aziraphale looked up at Crowley with such sincere affection it stole his breath from his lungs. “I do genuinely enjoy having you around.”

Right. Well, if now was the time for sincere heart-to-hearts, Crowley summoned the courage to say, “I missed you, y’know. This last century. America was a nightmare. Would have been a bit more tolerable with you. But - the job.”

“Of course,” Aziraphale said softly. “The job.”

The mind of a person in love - human, demon, or otherwise - loves to torture its victim with false hope. Crowley wondered for a moment if he should ask what has been preying on his mind for almost as long - if Aziraphale didn’t go in for Efforts, would he go in for relationships of any kind? Was there hope for him, despite it all? 

Luckily he had just enough common sense not to ask that. Instead he took another shot for the hell of it and moved on, pushing the softer thoughts in his head, down, down, down, until they could be safely bottled up. 

“So,” he said firmly and loudly. “Never have I ever…”

IV 

London, 1895

As an angel, it was Aziraphale’s duty to not become attached to the humans he watched over. Yes, he was expected to love humans, as he loved all creatures with a holy and unconditional love, but this was a cold and distant love and he found himself incapable of restraining himself to it. He was an angel, and yet he felt grief, and fear, and most of all, love. In this case, platonic love. The love of a friend. An equal.

Oscar Wilde was charming. Witty. Incredibly talented and brutally candid about every person and idea he came across. Aziraphale found himself engrossed in his words, both on the page and spoken when they met, while Oscar was curious about this almost equally eccentric angel (not that he knew what Aziraphale truly was) with a mysterious past, and so they formed a friendship.

“Such a waste,” Aziraphale lamented in a whisper. “Such a waste of talent.”

A sudden swell of emotion passed through him, surrounding him, heavy and bitter, and he couldn’t tell if he was sensing his own grief or that of the other men present. The force of it knocked another stifled sob out of him as he drank his cup of wine. Around him, where once the Gentleman’s club was full of laughter and friendly chatting and flirting, he heard the sobs and hushed rumours spreading from one man to the other, as each one heard that Oscar Wilde, one of the club’s most generous patrons, a friend to many, had been found guilty of sexual perversion. Homosexuality. The forbidden love.

“So it’s true,” Crowley’s voice said behind him. “Wilde’s been prosecuted.” 

He nodded, gesturing for Crowley to sit down. He was now long beyond being surprised whenever Crowley appeared to him, often in times of distress, like at the Bastille. But the feeling of relief hadn’t yet faded. “Two years’ hard labour, then exile.”

“Well, it could be worse. Could be a life sentence.”

Anger bubbled up inside him. He turned to glare at Crowley. “It’s little better, and you know it. You’ve seen the strain the labour puts on men. How the conditions wreck the body. It’s not long before you find Death in their vicinity.” He sniffed, wiping his nose on his sleeve in a manner neither gentlemanly nor angelic. He didn’t really care. “I’ll give him ten years at most.”

“Oh. Well, that’s how mortality works, angel. You watch these humans, you take a liking to one, and before long they’re being escorted off this mortal plane. There’s little use in crying over it.”

“Has anyone ever told you that you are completely incompetent at comforting people?”

“Never had much practice.” Crowley licked his lips nervously, the forked tongue darting out so quickly a human would miss it. “I am sorry, you know. Truly. I know you were close.”

“Thank you. Yes, he was - “ he hiccupped - “a dear friend. Though staying here isn’t helping matters. My emotional state.” Aziraphale gestured around him, to the morbid distress around the room. “I’m being... overwhelmed.”

“By what?”

“Fear. Grief. Anxiety. It’s radiating from every man in this building. And I can feel it all,” he tapped his sternum, “Right here.”

“Can’t be too comfortable.”

“No. But more than that, there’s... love. The love these men feel for each other - solidarity. There’s so much love of the purest kind here, not to mention the Virtues - fortitude in the face of adversity, kindness towards one another, diligence. And yet all _they_ see are... degenerates.” He spat out the last word with all the bitterness and hatred an angel could muster.

“‘They’ as in... heaven?”

“Goodness me, no. We don’t care up there about that.” Aziraphale shook his head firmly. “No, this is the humans’ doing. The humans and their hundreds of years’ worth of mistranslations of the Almighty’s words.” Sometimes it was amusing. The other angels used to pour through the pages of the Bible for any sign of them being mentioned, laughing at the ridiculously petty things humans thought God cared about. Other times, it was awful, spreading havoc and hatred that human authorities deemed justified. Aziraphale’s head pounded with wrath, so he took another drink, which he immediately felt guilty about, which only worsened his headache. “Goodness me, I shouldn’t be in this state. It’s not healthy.”

“Yeah, well. I’ve seen you in worse conditions. Summer of ‘78.” Referring, of course, to 78 AD. Aziraphale couldn’t help but smile slightly at the memory, even if it had left him with a broken wing and a stern scolding from Gabriel. Crowley continued speaking, gently, “Listen, this place isn’t doing much for you. Why don’t we go back to your bookshop and continue drinking there, eh? I’m sure it’s what Wilde would want you to do.”

“Oh, but I haven’t blessed all these men yet. It’s why I came, you see. I knew they’d be in a far worse state than I am so I wanted to give them some hope, maybe miracle some with enough of a pay rise to afford a boat to the continent, where it will be safer. But I just - I don’t have the energy.” Aziraphale could just imagine Gabriel’s reaction, his mocking sneer and chuckle. _What kind of an angel are you? Getting drained so easily by the loss of one human?_ He slumped against the table, leaning his head on his arm. “‘M a pathetic excuse for an angel,” he slurred.

“Don’t talk like that, angel. You’re the best of all of them.” Aziraphale lifted his head up slightly, so that one eye could see above his arm. Even behind the glasses, he could see in Crowley’s eyes that he _meant_ that. To his disappointment, Crowley instantly looked away, turning his attention to the other men in the establishment, and clicked his fingers. Instantly, the heaviness and icy coolness of the grief in the room was elevated. It felt warm again, alive with hope and fondness. So much love that Aziraphale was sure he would suffocate from it, filling his lungs and head and every cell in his vessel. He lifted his head up and looked around at the men; a group were making a toast to Wilde, recounting fond memories and exchanging anecdotes. Some expressed hope that once the scandal of Wilde’s trial died down, they would not need to live in fear of police raids and violent attacks and public shame. Others swore vows with renewed courage and unconditional devotion- _I’ll come with you. I’ll go to Italy or France - wherever you want to go. I’ll stay by your side._

Aziraphale choked out a sob. “Oh, Crowley. Did you - ?”

“Just a minor demonic blessing. I didn’t spend all those years of our Arrangement learning nothing, after all.”

It could have been the gratitude for Crowley swelling up inside him, or the overflowing Love pouring into the room for Aziraphale to feel, or his sorrow for Oscar Wilde’s fate coming to the surface after allowing it to brew under his skin for so long, but something in the softness of Crowley’s voice became the proverbial straw on the proverbial camel’s back. Aziraphale broke down into sobs, the kind that wracks one’s chest and leaves their head pounding and their eyes burning. 

“Aziraphale? Did I do something wrong?”

Aziraphale shook his head, and both as reassurance for Crowley and comfort for himself, wrapped his arms around Crowley, weeping on his shoulder into the dampening shirt fabric.

“‘S alright, angel,” Crowley murmured, rubbing Aziraphale’s back. “It’s not one of my favourites anyway.”

Aziraphale sniffled. “Thank you, Crowley. For - for everything. You’re wonderful.”

He felt Crowley stiffen in his arms, his hand on his back pausing. “Don’t mention it,” he murmured. “Please.”

V 

London, 1941 

Aziraphale had been acting odd since the events which had unfolded in the church. Well, odd for his usual eccentric self. On the ride back to his flat, he felt Aziraphale’s gaze on him throughout the journey out of the corner of his eye, burning a hole into his head. If Crowley so much as turned to glance at him, he tore his gaze away so suddenly Crowley had to question if it was there at all. He could hear him nervously tapping his finger on his knee, shuffling in his seat for the whole journey, though he barely said a word. The Blitz and the resultant blackout the humans had decided would be the safest solution (though the long queue of Londoners, run over by cars and walking into train tracks, lining up outside heaven and hell’s gates would suggest otherwise) meant there was total darkness in the streets. Crowley couldn’t see Aziraphale, but he heard him. Felt him. Sensed his anxious energy like a pungent smell. 

“You alright, angel?” Crowley asked quietly when they pulled up to Aziraphale’s bookshop. 

“Mmh? Oh yes. Fine. Perfectly fine. Just - near discorporation experiences. Don’t happen every day, do they?”

“Not as long as I’m around to prevent it.” Crowley had intended to come off lightly, as he does with the usual sarcastic banter the two exchange, but this seemed to make Aziraphale all the more nervous. He could feel it in the heavy silence of the car.

“Yes. Indeed. Crowley, I - I have to thank - “

“Don’t,” Crowley said sharply. “Forget it. Let’s just - how about we go inside and get a couple of drinks to calm your nerves? It’ll do you a world of good.”

“Oh. I - I best not. I wouldn’t want to get in trouble…“

“Well, if we haven’t gotten in trouble by now, I doubt one evening will make a difference. Nothing’s changed. Just two old friends, having a drink and a laugh together. Alright?”

Aziraphale hesitated for a moment, long enough for Crowley to worry that he had misstepped. Then he released a shaky breath, and agreed. “Alright. A few drinks won’t hurt.”

With the blackout blinds down on Aziraphale’s windows, so that he could turn the lights on (electric - wonderful human invention, with a marginally lower risk of fires than candles), they sat down in opposing armchairs. Crowley rather liked Aziraphale’s flat, surrounded by books and soft furniture for sitting, a constant scent of log fire and pastries lingering and making it smell like home. It may be crowded like hell, but it had a certain cleanness and order to it in its chaos which made it far easier to tolerate. 

Aziraphale poured them both brandy from his decanter - very difficult to come by in these days of rations and restrictions. Crowley watched his hands shake, almost knocking the glasses over and spilling them onto his rug. 

“Here, let me, Angel -“

“I’m fine,” he replied roughly. “I’m not incompetent.”

“No. You just accidentally joined forces with a double-crossing Nazi spy and nearly got yourself killed.”

The withering glare Aziraphale returned was almost enough to smite him into salt. 

“Happens to the best of us,” Crowley hastened to add. “Anyway,” he reached for his drink, as Aziraphale reached for his. He held it up to toast. “We’re here and unharmed. That’s what matters.”

Aziraphale clinked his glass to Crowley’s. “To being unharmed.” Then, much to Crowley’s distress and concern, Aziraphale downed his entire drink in one gulp, the amber liquid quickly disappearing as though vanished.

“Aziraphale,” Crowley breathed, scandalised, “you didn’t even stop to savour the aroma.”

“No,” he replied glumly. “I suppose I didn’t.” Then he poured himself another drink and did it again.

“Aziraphale!”

“Catch up, will you? You know I hate drinking alone.” Crowley hesitated, but at the sight of Aziraraphale’s pleading (manipulative) baby blue eyes, he rolled his eyes and did the same as Aziraphale, ignoring how the brandy burned as it slid down his throat. 

“So. Want to tell me what this is about? ‘Cause it’s definitely not the discorporation thing. Unless you really are that passionate about avoiding paperwork.”

Aziraphale huffed out a small giggle in spite of his nerves. “No. I suppose not.”

“So? What is it?”

“Can’t say.”

“Can’t? Whaddaya mean, can’t?”

“What the word has always meant. I will not tell you, simply because it is not within my abilities to do so.” 

“Is it a heaven thing?”

“In a way. Because if they knew, they’d be so cross.” Aziraphale’s eyes widened with worry. “And they’d completely destroy you.” 

“Come on. Not even one little hint?” Crowley leaned forwards, aiming to rest his elbow on his knee and lean on his hand with an inquisitive but casual expression, except in his tipsy state, he wound up falling onto the floor by Aziraphale’s feet. Ah, never mind, he could use this to his advantage. Make Aziraphale laugh. He took his sunglasses off and looked up at him with as much puppy-ness as snake eyes were capable of, kneeling in front of him. (The irony of this position was not lost on him). “Please?”

Aziraphale’s lips remained pressed together in a thin, straight line, pale with some unnamable anxiety, unamused by Crowley’s efforts, or at least trying to be. The hand on his knee next to Crowley’s face twitched, the fingers stretching out towards him for a millisecond before retreating back into a fist like a tortoise into its shell. Crowley grew worried then. “Angel?”

“I - I realised something back in the church. When you handed me the books.”

“What? Lemme guess, can’t say?”

“Not unless our superiors become very lenient about a lot of things, all of a sudden.”

Now, here is where the miscommunication took place. Crowley assumed Aziraphale’s words meant that he had discovered his secret - that Crowley was undeniably and ineffably in love with him, and that this realisation was so horrific to the angel it was sending him into a nervous breakdown about what heaven and hell would do to them if they found out. In reality, Aziraphale was referring to the discovery that he himself was undeniably and ineffably in love with Crowley, and that this feeling was almost indistinguishable from the pulses of love that radiated from Crowley the moment he decided to enter a church, risking pain and death and total destruction for the sake of his angel. 

“I see,” Crowley managed, treading on eggshells. He suddenly felt a whole lot more sober, as though doused by a bucket of cold water. “You don’t have anything to worry about, y’know. It’s hardly your fault.” _For who could love a demon in return? Who would choose to?_

“Heaven won’t see it that way. They don’t like me all that much anyway, and now this.” Aziraphale took another drink, then stared at the glass in his hand in contemplation. “Sometimes I wonder…”

“Wonder what?”

Aziraphale looked down at Crowley with such raw melancholy it froze him in his seat. What Aziraphale meant to say was, _I wonder what it would be like without our loyalty to heaven and hell. If we could be free to do as we please without them, if I wouldn’t be such a coward._ Instead, he shook his head, then whispered, a lump in his throat, “I do envy humans so.”

Crowley couldn’t think of a single translation for that.

1 

London, 2019. 

They were free now. 

They’d made the switch. They’d deceived heaven and hell. They’d made sure that no one would be bothering them for a good long while, buying them at least a bit of time to… well, to do whatever the <s>hell</s> <s>heaven</s> something they wanted. 

Tonight, Aziraphale wanted to kiss Crowley.

And he sure as <s>heaven</s> <s>hell</s> something wasn’t going to hide behind a bottle when he did it.

Seventy years ago, he was terrified by the idea that he could love Crowley, and that Crowley could love him. It had shaken him to his core, tearing down the foundations of everything he was taught and everything he thought he knew. All that he had been certain of was that they were in imminent danger if they continued down that path at the pace Crowley was leading them. He’d said so himself in Soho, 1967. But now, he was giddy with the prospect of a future together.

They were walking through - a miraculously empty - St James’ Park after a long evening at the Ritz, food-sated and light without the burden of their loyalties to their bosses. Aziraphale had made sure to sober up just before leaving, to make sure his head was clear and that when he spoke, he wouldn’t be a complete, fumbling mess, but rather something more eloquent, to woo Crowley with his poetic and honest declaration. Even demons need to be charmed. 

Now all he had to do was think of the right words to say, and ignore the anxious churning in his gut.

“Crowley, my dear,” he said cheerfully. “Do you mind if we sat down for a little while?” 

Crowley shrugged carelessly and sat with him on the bench, his arm stretched out along the back and his legs spread out obscenely, stretched out like a snake preparing for its meal. The sun was setting in front of them, casting a deep, amber glow around them, making Crowley’s red hair seem even more fire-like. It was ridiculous to romanticise what was essentially a vessel for Crowley’s true form, impermanent and fragile and changeable as it was. After all, he would love him no matter what form Crowley had taken, be it man or woman, dark or blond, tall or petite. He had loved him when Crowley had taken Aziraphale’s own vessel. But even so, it was grounding to look at him, to savour his beauty and this moment before he flipped their little world upside-down. His nerves calmed, just enough. 

“Crowley,” Aziraphale began, as he had rehearsed in his mind. “I wish to talk to you about something.” 

A pause arose, seemingly stretching on for an eternity. “...Okay,” Crowley finally replied. 

“Wonderful. Okay. So - I’ve known you for a good long while now.”

“Six thousand years, yes.”

“And - well, we’re friends, aren’t we?”

“I should bloody well hope so, I risked hell fire for you.”

“Oh, shut up, I have a point to make,” Aziraphale tittered. This was going off script slightly, but not irreparably so. “Despite everything about our pasts and our differences, we’re friends. But underneath all that, there was this fear I had. Tons and tons of it. I feared my superiors, and what they would do if they found out, and I feared losing you. Pushing you away somehow. Every time we separated, even just for a decade or two, I always felt so, so lonely. So instead, fifty two years ago, I pushed you away.”

“Angel,” Crowley breathed.

“I was a coward. Because I was scared of heaven and what they could do. An angel being friends with a demon alone is unheard of. But - being in love…”

“Angel?”

“That’s what I realised, back at the church. That I had fallen for you. Metaphorically speaking, that is. Not literally, of course. Not that that wasn’t somewhat a fear of mine.” He grimaced at his own fumbling. “Anyway, I also realised the feeling was mutual, and the idea of us being together inseparably, so that you wouldn’t need to travel thousands of miles to rescue me from danger, or prearrange accidental meetings just to have lunch with me, was so… tempting. It was within reach, and that terrified me. I said you were going too fast, but really, I was dragging my feet.”

“What are you saying?”

“I’m asking for forgiveness. For my selfish behaviour these past few centuries. But I don’t have to hide anymore, now.” Aziraphale exhaled softly. Crowley did nothing but stare, rapt. “And I’m saying I love you, Crowley, and that I want to spend the rest of eternity by your side.” 

Aziraphale sat back with a sigh, satisfied with his speech and awaiting a response. An ‘I love you too’ would be brilliant. A kiss would be marvelous. A ‘let’s just be friends’ would be fine. Instead there was… nothing. Zilch. Nada. Just Crowley’s blank stare covered by his sunglasses and his comically agape mouth, without even the slightest sound of breathing.

Aziraphale cleared his throat. “I do believe that’s your cue to respond, my dear.”

“I - angel - ngk - what the he- fuck am I meant to say to that?”

“Whatever’s on your mind.”

So Crowley lurched across to the other side of the bench and kissed him.

He kissed him with a force and suddenness that knocked the wind out of Aziraphale’s lungs with a small ‘mmf!’, with a clumsiness and cautiousness that is too endearing to be considered a fault - after all, neither of them had enough experience in this department to be blamed. Aziraphale could only pull Crowley closer, an encouraging hand on his waist, and pour all his love into the kiss, until the kiss softened and calmed into something _wonderful_.

Crowley pulled away with a soft gasp, breathing heavily and leaning his head against Aziraphale’s. Aziraphale smiled. “So. I suppose you concur with my offer?”

“Concur with your - ?! Yes. Everything you just said. Yes to all of it.”

They kissed again, and again, and again, in the park, in the flat, and soon, in the Sussex Downs, confessing love over and over and over again, until both of them had quite lost count of who said it and when, though Aziraphale would always claim he said it first, and Crowley would always say he felt it first. But really, when an impossible thing happens, perhaps it's just better to drink to it.

**Author's Note:**

> After actual research it turns out shot glasses were invented in the 1940s, not the 18th century. I have no idea when never have I ever was invented but it probably wasn't the 18th century either. But if Neil Gaiman can put Aziraphale in the Bastille 4 years after it was destroyed, I can be a little bit inaccurate too


End file.
